


five words benton fraser has highlighted in his dictionary

by coloredink



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-24
Updated: 2007-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no one word that describes Ray Kowalski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five words benton fraser has highlighted in his dictionary

Benton has a dictionary, a pocket-sized (if one has large pockets or better yet, a pack, and he is fortunate enough to possess both) volume with a discolored leather cover and dogeared pages. He does not make a habit of carrying it, as his vocabulary is more than sufficient for daily tasks, but proper preparation, as they say, and so he keeps the dictionary by his cot. On nights when he cannot sleep, which to his chagrin come often here in the city, he opens the dictionary to a random page and begins reading, committing unknown words to memory. There is no such thing as useless information.

It was pure whimsy that prompted him to mark that first entry, but one page was soon followed by more, and now a casual flip reveals dozens of words all highlighted in the same neat, precise hand.

\---

 **deceive** _v._ 1\. To cause to believe what is not true; mislead. 2. _Archaic_ To catch by guile; ensnare.

"So what you are telling me," Ray said, stabbing a finger in the general direction of Benton's chest, his other hand clutching a half-eaten burger, "is that you _actually_ thought your buddy'd up and turned into a skinny blond Polack overnight--"

"You have to admit, the behavior of those in the 2-7 was--" Benton tried.

"--and so you had to collect all this, this _evidence_ to prove to the Lieutenant otherwise, and that was what was up with the nose-measuring and the putty in the sandwich and alla that," Ray went on, his burger dripping onto his plate, "and then you actually went and _showed_ him it?"

"Yes," Benton admitted.

Ray laughed, not at all in a malicious way but rather, in the affectionate manner of a longtime friend who has come to expect this sort of behavior by now. "You're a freak," he said, in the same warm voice. "But that's cool, y'know, because you're also a damn good cop, and that is okay in my book." He drummed his feet on the floor and bit into his burger again; his table manners were quite possibly more atrocious than Dief's.

"You're. . . you're a good police officer, as well, Ray," Benton said, feeling as though he had to offer _something_ to this man who had, after all, saved his life earlier that day.

Ray wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Y'think?" he said through a mouthful of half-chewed food. He grinned, lopsidedly. "Well, thanks. That means a lot to me."

"You did, as they say, 'take a bullet' for me," Benton felt compelled to point out.

"S'what a vest is for, buddy," Ray said.

\---

 **zeal** _n_. Enthusiastic devotion to a cause, ideal, or goal and tireless diligence in its furtherance.

They were approaching hour 28 without sleep--29, in Benton's case, as he was usually up with the dawn, preparing the Consulate--and Ray was on his thirteenth or fourteenth cup of coffee, if what the station served could even be called that. Even Benton could admit that the station coffee could be improved with a liberal spoonful of potting soil. They had locked themselves in one of the interrogation rooms, Ray snarling at anyone who came near, a map tacked to one wall (it had been crooked; Benton straightened it during hour 16), crime photos and cartons of Chinese food strewn across the table.

"We're missing something," Ray said, pounding the table with one fist. "It's here somewhere, I just _know_ it!"

Benton pinched the bridge of his nose. "It has been some time since either of us have gotten any rest," he said. "Perhaps with a short nap, we might return to the case with clearer--"

"No," Ray interrupted him. "Hell, no. The second we close our eyes is the second this fucker finds himself another vic, Frase, you _know_ that, you--"

Benton frowned. "Are you suggesting that--wait. Wait a moment." He fumbled amongst the papers and glossy photos on the table, knocking over an empty carton of broccoli beef in the process. He was in such haste he could not be bothered to pick it up, and Diefenbaker lunged for it with a hungry moan. At last he came up with the list of victims and their TODs and smoothed it out on a pile of discarded fortune cookie wrappers. "Here, Ray--it's as you said, it's been here all along."

Ray bent his head over the sheet, frowning. "What? What am I looking at?"

"The pattern, Ray, he's been timing the kills for when the--"

"--when the cops change their shifts," Ray finished, eyes widening. "Holy shit, Frase. _Holy shit_."

Benton nodded, that familiar rush breaking over him again. Ray was already headed for the door.

\---

 **gesticulate** _v_. 1. to make or use gestures, esp. in an animated or excited manner with or instead of speech. 2. to express by gesturing.

Though Ray would deny it, he is astonishingly eloquent, with his body if not his words (though he has revealed, on more than one instance, that he is more than capable of being articulate when he chooses; it is simply that he does not choose, and whatever Ray's reasons, they are his own). An open palm, close to or against Benton's chest, means "Stop." Outspread arms mean "What?" A brush of thumb or forefinger against the nose says, "I trust you," or "I get it." A jerk of the chin says, "What're you lookin' at?" The quick spin of hand on wrist indicates, "Hurry up, before I die of waiting" or "Hang on a sec, there's a lot going on," accompanied by the appropriate facial expression.

Ray's face also speaks volumes: a quick flash of teeth bared in a smile or a grimace, the arch of questioning eyebrows, the purse of his lips when he is thinking.

Ray dances. Ray shapes his thumb and forefinger into a gun and says "bang." Ray raises his eyebrows and makes scissoring motions with his index and middle finger when he cannot find the implement in question. Ray sticks his upright middle finger out the window at the other drivers in lieu of verbal obscenities.

Benton speaks English, French, Mandarin, and Inuktitut with what might be called reasonable fluency, and any number in between at varying levels of competency: he is conversant in Arabic, at least, and his Finnish could only improve with practice. But Ray's language is one all his own.

\---

 **persist** _v_ 1\. To be obstinately repetitious, insistent, or tenacious. 2. To hold firmly and steadfastly to a purpose, state, or undertaking despite obstacles, warnings, or setbacks. 3. To continue in existence.

Benton drove Ray home from Beth Botrelle's house, as he was clearly in no condition to do so himself. Ray said nothing during the entire ride, not even when Benton kept to the posted speed limit and stopped at every red light and every stop sign. Had he not already been deeply concerned for his friend, that would have done it.

When at last they arrived at Ray's apartment, Benton was unsure of what to do. Deposit Ray safely in his abode, certainly. And then what? Should he stay? Would Ray appreciate the company, or would he see it as useless mothering? Even if Ray resisted the idea of Benton staying, should he press the matter? He was unversed in the niceties of friendship. At last, he decided he would accompany Ray upstairs; then he would take the rest of his cues from Ray, as he always had before.

Ray stared blankly around the apartment, and for a moment Benton thought he would head straight for the bedroom. This would allieviate Benton's quandary nicely; he would simply kip on the couch and tell Ray the next morning that he was unsure if Ray wished to be alone. Then Ray made a move toward the kitchen instead, only to stop partway there and glance over his shoulder at Benton.

"You need anything?" he asked.

Benton relaxed, but only minutely; would Ray turn to alcohol in his time of distress? "No, thank you."

Ray brought him water, anyway, along with one for himself, and they sat side by side on the couch and sipped from their glasses. The tap water tasted like minerals and chlorine. Benton thought of snowmelt and charcoal.

"I'm going to bed," Ray said, at last. "You going to stay?"

Benton looked down at his glass. "As you wish," he replied.

Ray nodded, and made as if to get up off the couch, but then settled his weight once more and turned to look at Benton. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Finally--though it did not seem as if that was all he meant to voice--he said, "Thanks, Fraser."

"You're welcome," Benton replied, and the gravity of the moment made him solemn.

Ray nodded and padded off to the bedroom, and the door shut with a quiet click behind him. Benton watched the crack of light under the door for a few moments, until it switched off, and undressed quietly in the dark. He availed himself of the extra pillow and blankets that Ray kept in his hall closet and lay awake, keeping time with his heartbeats. He knew without looking where all of Stella's photos were in Ray's apartment, knew that saving Beth Botrelle had not laid to rest her ghost.

\---

 **ardor** _n_. 1. Fiery intensity of feeling. 2. Strong enthusiasm or devotion; zeal. 3. Intense heat or glow, as of fire.

Three days into their journey, Ray said, "You haven't led me drive the sled, Fraser."

"That's because you don't know how, Ray," Fraser replied.

"Then show me," Ray said.

Fraser showed him, and after that, he showed Ray how to tie their belongings to the sled, how to dig a tent pit in the snow, and how to clean a showshoe hare. He realized that he had done Ray an injustice when he feared that the north would dampen Ray's spark. Ray threw himself into their adventure with the same passion and intensity he reserved for everything else, whether it was eating, drinking, police work, or channel surfing. If now he aimed his gun at snowshoe hares instead of fleeing criminals, he did not complain of the difference.

"You know," Ray said one night, while they lay in their tent with their sleeping bags zipped together, basking in their shared heat, "I don't think I ever heard you say you love something."

"Surely that's not true," Benton replied. "After all, I love a great many things."

"Sure ya do," Ray said. "Just 'cause you don't say it don't mean you don't _feel_ it."

The air in the tent was suddenly thick. Benton tried not to breathe too loudly. This was a turning point, he was certain of it. He was afraid to look at Ray. He could not help it if he felt that words had a deserved weight; how could he know Ray's feelings, when Ray used the word love for everything from coffee to Stella? How much of Ray's love was metaphorical?

"I love you, Ray," he said, because he knew that Ray was waiting for it.

He felt Ray roll toward him in their joined sleeping bags, felt Ray's lips near his ear. "Show me."


End file.
